For his part, Richard sat to one end of the firing range, close to the lit barbeque grill. A folding table in front of him was covered with the paraphenalia of gun maintenance, along with one empty bottle of San Miguel, and a second he was working through. A cooler to one side held numerous other bottles for the rest of the unit to partake from. As the Israeli cleaned his Tavor, he whistled off-handedly as he sipped from the brown-glass bottle, squinting skyward to pick out the shape of the C-130, or peer at the antics on the shooting range alternately between cleaning his rifle.